He Played Kennedy. Then He Became Himself.

Somewhere, F.B.I. and C.I.A. agents are reviewing the remaining 300 or so classified files on the Kennedy assassination, in preparation for the final release of those records in the spring. And as they go about their work, I am hoping they will perhaps come upon the name of Vaughn Meader, a man once known less for being himself than for his spectacular success at imitating someone else.

Meader won the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1963. His comedy record, “The First Family,” was a lighthearted look at the Kennedys, with his pitch-perfect imitation of John F. Kennedy at its core. The year before, it had been the fastest-selling album in the history of the record industry.

Vaughn Meader "The First Family," 1962CreditVideo by Jason1920

By the time I met him in the late 1990s, he’d become — well, the phrase “town drunk” sounds unduly harsh, and it also fails to capture how deeply beloved he was by many in Hallowell, Me. But once, when I prepared to interview him, I was advised to book our conversation for breakfast, because by late morning “he kind of heads downhill.”

His time as a celebrity had long since passed. In those days, he was mostly known for playing ragtime piano in a bar called the Wharf, down by the Kennebec River.

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Vaughn Meader won the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1963 for his comedy record, “The First Family.”CreditSun Journal/Associated Press

Forty years earlier, though, he was one of the most popular entertainers in the world.

“The First Family” sold more than a million copies in its first two weeks, pushing the debut album of Peter, Paul & Mary out of the No. 1 spot. Soon enough, Americans of both parties could do Meader’s version of Kennedy — especially his signature line, “move ahead with great vigah,” delivered in the president’s Harvard accent.

Not everyone was pleased by the “First Family” phenomenon. James Hagerty, who had been President Dwight Eisenhower’s press secretary, said that it demeaned the presidency and that “every Communist country in the world would love this record.” But Kennedy himself seemed to enjoy it — and even gave copies of the record as Christmas presents. At a Democratic Party event, the president greeted his audience by saying, “Vaughn Meader was busy tonight, so I came myself.” At a news conference, he said: “I listened to Mr. Meader’s record and, frankly, I thought it sounded more like Teddy than me. So now he’s annoyed.”

In 1999 over breakfast (and drinks), Meader asked me, “Did I ever tell you how I got murdered in Milwaukee? I got into a cab, November ’63. The cabby said, ‘Did you hear about Kennedy in Dallas?’ I said to him, ‘No, how does it go?’ I thought he was telling me a joke.”

It wasn’t a joke.

Lenny Bruce opened his first post-assassination performance with the line, “Boy, is Vaughn Meader screwed.” (Actually, he used a different adjective.)

“The First Family” was pulled from stores, along with its sequel; the publisher, Cadence Records, didn’t want to appear to be “cashing in” on the assassination. Meader’s gigs were canceled, his career over. In a single moment he became a walking reminder of the nation’s trauma.

When people write about Vaughn Meader — and each anniversary of the assassination, for a long time, inspired journalists to do just that — they often describe his life as tragic. It’s tempting to quote Kurt Vonnegut, who, in describing the moral of his novel “Mother Night,” said, “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

But I took something else away from my brief intersection with Meader — by then into his 60s and going by his first name, Abbott. (After Dallas, he dropped “Vaughn.”) True, he’d fallen from about as high a height as a man could. But everyone we encountered in Hallowell seemed to be looking out for him. One man came over as we ate our breakfast and asked Meader if he needed any money; when he admitted that he did, the fellow excused himself, went to a nearby A.T.M. and came back with “enough cash to float you for a little while.” Later, as we walked through town, many people stopped to greet him by name and to wish him well.

Vaughn Meader disappeared on Nov. 22, 1963. But on that same day, Abbott Meader was born.

Being loved and protected by people in a small town might not seem to be as glorious a state as, say, being on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” But, as my mother used to say, it’s not nothing. Meader, who died in 2004, wasn’t dear to people in Hallowell because he’d once done an impression of someone else; he was loved for who he was — a battered, imperfect soul, still in the throes of becoming himself.

Abbott Meader didn’t do a John Kennedy impression. But he played a great ragtime piano, and he could sing.

Should agents uncover Meader’s name in some dusty classified file, I hope that they’ll spend a few moments meditating on just how hard it is to become our authentic selves. And then use their whole hearts to pursue that truth. And move ahead. With great vigah.

Jennifer Finney Boylan (@JennyBoylan), a contributing opinion writer, is a professor of English at Barnard College and the author of the novel “Long Black Veil.”